


Harry Potter and the World Against.

by ZenzaoDLP



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Gen, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Work In Progress, World Travel, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7358380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZenzaoDLP/pseuds/ZenzaoDLP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An eight-arc world-tour in which Auror Potter and co. work together, fall apart, suffer death and isolation, and have the various countries magical and muggle alike turn against them at the hands of an unknown antagonist who seems to know just how to manipulate governments, public opinion, and politics to his favor. Each arc has been roughly outlined, all that remains is the execution of the finer details and the novel-length word count per arc to be put in. It'll be a wild ride - I can only hope you join me for the journey.</p><p>Arc I: When Charlie Weasley contacts Ron and Harry to request their aid in Romania, the two Aurors find much more than they had bargained for. The ruling Aristocracy has no interest in assisting their unofficial investigation into various illegal activities, and something seems to be going on inside of the nobles' inner circles that ties into the distant past of Britain, but can Harry, Ron, and Charlie figure out the mystery?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry Potter and the World Against.

**Harry Potter and the World Against**  
Arc I - Romania  
Chapter One - Prep work.

 

Seated behind his desk of four years, Auror Potter leaned back with his arms at ease behind his head and watched as his paperweights finished shredding the last of his leftover reports in their confrontation. Ron's wizarding chess pieces stood three to one against the small horde of now bifurcated dragons, including one miniature Hungarian Horntail, who mewled weakly instead of the ferocious roar he'd known so well.  
  
The surviving knight raised its sword high. In response Harry nodded gravely. “Well played, gentlemen.”  
  
He smiled to himself as the survivors, now cleared of task, began assembling their fallen brethren and brushing aside the dust. The dragons huddled up defensively around their own dead and silently belched bubbles of fire and ice to be rid of the larger lumps of parchment.  
  
When all was said and done his holly desk sat clean. The enchanted paperweights once more gathered themselves together and looked up to him for confirmation, which he gave with another nod. Before he could draw his wand and magick over the next stack of reports from last month, however, the door to their office rattled in its frame and from outside, through the tinted, frosted glass window in the middle of the sturdy oak, Harry saw the outline of his partner and best friend in the world.  
  
“Bloody hell, don't tell me it's Monday again?” The slosh in his distorted voice brought Harry up out of his seat and around to where he could take up a better position. And, on cue, the frame shook only once more before Ron resorted to ‘the backup’. They had both agreed a long time ago to swap out the enchantments every week to varying degrees, with a retention key to get through the new protections should the other forget about the pending update or miss the reminder left at the Burrow.  
  
Harry waited expectantly and Ron did not disappoint. The hinges melted and the entire door fell in on itself. Ron brushed a few stray bangs out of his face and marched in as if nothing at all were astray. “Oi, Harry.”  
  
“To you as well mate. Long night?”  
  
“Oh shove off, how was I supposed to remember you'd dose the firewhiskey? You're more your father's son than I like some days.”  
  
To which Harry leveled a shrug of noncommittal acceptance and replied, “Then next time don't get sloshed on a Sunday. Hermione's cooking is better than that.” To show that there was no animosity in his point, however, Harry drew a bottle of Curie's Cure-All out of his pocket and offered it to his fellow Auror. “Here, drink up. If you want some entertainment I've just been taking care of last month's papers.”  
  
Ron accepted the peace offering with good nature and a light in his eyes at the mention of dealing with old reports. “Glad to see you're taking the high road this time.”  
  
Harry quirked a brow. “Don't I always?” With that said he poked his wand in the direction of the vacant space where their door had once stood and silently began pulling up the enchantments that secured their office's privacy. The greater Ministry of Magic had seen many reforms since the end of the Crouch administration, some of which had been pushed back between Voldemort's rise and fall, and some of which were freshly reintroduced since Kingsley took up the reigns. They knew most of who their neighbors were, but after O'Henry had turned out to be a sleeper agent for some nationalist cause twenty years gone for Magical Turkey of all places, Harry preferred not to take any chances. In moments he had transfigured the material back into place and swished his wand through the dozen motions to reaffirm the charms and low-yield curses. Nothing deadly, of course - but disabling enough to shut up someone in a hurry.  
  
When his task was done he found a sobering Ron moodily cheering on his favorite rook as a Ukranian Ironbelly stomped its way over two pawns. The poor blighter found itself staring down the Croation Carcholtog across the row despite Ron's protests and surlier encouragement. "No, turn around. _Turn around_! Aw dammit.” With resignation Ron poked the now squashed soldier with the tip of his finger and swore when he pricked himself on a bit of mangled armor.  
  
Harry joined him across the desk as Ron nursed his weeping digit. “Anything from the Minister on your way up?” he asked.  
  
“Bloody hell- nah, nothing more than usual. Last suspected Death Eater camp was headed up by Hannah and Susan three weeks ago. Usual sparse sightings across the Wiltshire Lord’s Forest, but nothing he's convinced is worth our time.” Ron finally took out his wand and cast _episkey_ , then begrudgingly moved over to his own desk with a noise of disgust at the turn of the battle beneath his gaze. “Remind me to train this lot up better next game. Their tactics have gone all pear-shaped.”  
  
Harry decided not to answer that their tactics had done just fine before the drunk man decided to interfere and offered him a sympathetic nod. He ignored the middle finger Ron gave him in return and they set about taking care of the remainder of this week's paperwork and standard review for criminal activity.  
  
It was nearly an hour after Ron had shown up to their office when the blank portrait hanging between their desks began to darken with pigment. Gradually a vista resolved of starlit Lake Capra, a lone fishing vessel at ease in the middle beneath a cloudy sky. A cloaked man sat on the edge of his dinghy with a lantern in one hand and a fishing rod in the other, and the voice that rang out suddenly as the boat rocked on a midnight breeze was quite familiar. “Ron, I hope you're listening. I could use a favor. Things are getting a little hectic across Romania of late, and the Aristocracy isn't offering much assistance here in Bucharest or otherwise.”  
  
A much more presentable if dozing off Ron leaned upright and hollered, "Charlie?"  
  
The older wizard's wry grin seemed to filter through his tone. “Unless you’ve got Bill hooked up to this baffling array of communications too, then, yes.”  
  
Ron gave the portrait a sour look that couldn’t be seen from Charlie’s end. “I've had about enough wisecracks this morning, mate, don't make me hex you through the charms in place.”  
  
“That makes two of us little brother, only I'm used to handling rowdy dragons on a daily basis. I'll duel you under the table if I have to, just let's take care of the matter in person- I know a couple of guys in International Cooperation if you need any ease on restrictions.” A moment's consideration and then, “And ask if Harry will join you. An eclectic group of fanatics calling themselves the Knights of Walpurgis have been rallying, but they never claim a particular cause for very long. I know something is awry here but with my job and now the nobles turning a blind eye, there isn’t much I can do alone.”  
  
Harry and Ron exchanged a furrowed expression. “Doesn’t that name sound familiar?” asked Ron.  
  
Harry racked his brain. “I think Sirius made mention of a Walpulgis a few times, but that was years ago and we were drunk off our arses after your mum had left for the night.”  
  
“Alright Charlie. How soon do you need us?”  
  
“Pretty soon. Within a day, preferably.”  
  
“We'll be there.” The portrait began to fade back into a blank possibility as Charlie broke off from his matching receptacle across the continent.  
  
Harry asked, “You want to speak with Rourke in Magical Transportation or should I?”  
  
“Ugh, you know he'd be more likely to work with you.” And like that, though the moment of seriousness should not have passed so soon, they were back to their usual banter.  
  
“Is he still bitter over your colors at our first World Cup? Honestly mate, just challenge him to a wand measuring contest and let the matter be done, everyone knows you supported Ireland as a whole and Viktor for his own merits.”  
  
Ron waved a hand dismissively in his direction. “Sure, let's get into a pissing match for the whole Ministry to snicker about. Sorry blighters don’t have enough rumors in the mill as it is?”  
  
Harry sighed.  
  
That, however, was hardly the correct choice of response to a man who went to sleep nursing a headache and woke up drunk instead of the other way around. Ron set his expression the way Ginny would after a row, and under that withering stare Harry held up his hands in surrender.  
  
"Okay, I'll deal with Rourke."  


 

* * *

  
Harry found his way through the reorganized departments with only one wrong turn. Even before the Ministry of Magic fell to Voldemort’s efforts and arose again in his twisted ideology, there hadn’t been much need for Harry to roam into the Department of Magical Transportation- there had been a war on. Since the reformation began under Minister Shacklebolt in the summer of 1998, however, a lot of the empty positions that had at first been filled by whomever could be found on short notice had since replaced out with more knowledgeable staff in the intervening years. Only a few duds remained on from before the new millennium, and Emery Rourke was one such man, an Irish wizard who had graduated Hogwarts a decade before Harry’s generation and gone on to do little more in the grand scheme of things other than attend the 1994 Quidditch World Cup and accept the Minister’s early calling. Supposedly he had the N.E.W.T.S to qualify for his extended stranglehold of his position, so it was only the lack of motivation and rude personality which made Rourke such a pain in the arse to deal with.

Later than expected Harry’s feet carried him before the closed door labeled _Emery S. Rourke_ , _Director of Magical Transportation_. As expected the man’s wireless was reporting on the finale between Egypt and Bulgaria loudly enough to make out each call clearly, and Rourke’s mutterings underneath when the announcer paused to breath. With such a ruckus Harry did not see much point in knocking. He turned the knob and stepped inside of the wide office overflowing with Quidditch memorabilia and only as many markings of station and books pertaining therein to Portkeys and Floo powder as to satisfy the standard set by Rourke’s predecessors.

“Morning, Emery.” The older wizard, reclined in his seat and staring up at a poster of Ireland on the ceiling overtop the department seal seemed to not hear Harry. _I suppose it was for the best that Ron didn't come here today_. Unfortunately Harry was also not in the mood to wait around for very long, and when still the director had not acknowledged him even after striding right up to Emery’s desk, Harry drew his wand and silenced the radio.

“-bloody Seeker couldn’t catch a Snitch if it was right underneath his nose--” after a moment Emery’s swearing against Victor Krum paused in mid complaint and he thumped his chair legs back to the carpeted floor, shaking his moppy brown hair into his blue eyes. “What the blazes do you want, Potter? Zaghloul has him on the edge of his wits!”

“Morning, Emery,” Harry repeated dryly. “I need to secure transport for myself and Ron overseas.”

“ _Oh_ , that prick?” Rourke scoffed. “Then he can come down here himself unless you’re under orders from the Minister. Now if you would I’d like to return to the match-” and he jabbed at the wireless with his own wand from the folds of a sleeve and the noise returned.

Harry was not amused. “No, we aren’t under orders. This is a personal favor.” He had to raise his voice to be heard, and Rourke waved his hands as if the matter was thus inconsequential compared to the finale and kicked back from his desk again as Egypt scored. It was quite tempting to bewitch the radio to dance through the other stations until it found _Celestina Warbeck’s 21 hour tribute to love_ , but resorting to such a tactic would only be a short lived satisfaction.

 _One way or another Ron and I are going to be meeting with Charlie tomorrow._ Still, he’d rather do this legitimately. A quick _Portus_ might save them a few minutes of wearing down Rourke’s resistance, but crossing the borders would certainly send up sparks _somewhere_ in this and another office and then they’d be receiving a few strongly worded admonishments signed in the Minister’s name at the very least.

He took a slow breath and on the exhale decided to pull a page out of the late Albus Dumbledore’s playbook, and conjured up a large plush armchair. Then he sat down, kicked up his trainers over Rourke’s desk, and folded his arms behind his own head to listen to the match. There _were_ worse ways to spend time than listening to the latest World Cup coming to a close.

For almost half an hour Rourke attempted to ignore him. Harry quietly rooted on Victor and Bulgaria as Rourke swore about both teams, particularly whenever Egypt lost the Quaffle and the score rose in Bulgaria’s favor, on which occasion Harry would whistle softly in appreciation of Victor’s teammates. Rourke kept glancing at him from the corners of his eyes on such moments and his muttering would momentarily pause, then resume with more vigor. Eventually as the hour drew on and the referee called a break following a collision between the Egyptian chaser and one of Bulgaria’s beaters Rourke sat up with a dissatisfied curse.

“Damnation! Alright, Potter, spit it out before the match resumes, and then get the hell out of my office so I can enjoy this in peace!”

 _Finally_. Harry unfolded his arms and lowered his feet to the floor. “We need to be in Bucharest by tomorrow morning. Just myself and Ron.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?” Telling him that they were going to see Ron’s older brother would be rubbing salt into the wound of cooperating. “If a Portkey is too much trouble to establish, we can go by disapparation or broom.”

Rourke flipped open one of the regulations books a few inches from where Harry’s trainers had been resting and thumbed through in a rush. “Oh, sure, a good Comet 260 once made it across the channel in two weeks,” he muttered. “Even if you had a Firebolt each - and I know you might, but Weasley?” He scoffed. “Even if you were both flying at top speed, nine hours on a broomstick is a death sentence for those without an understanding of professional grade easements.”

 _Keep going, Emery. You’re getting there._ “So flying is out and I don’t think either of us wants to imagine the logistics of setting up a fireplace overnight in another country.”

Rourke shot him a sour look and continued through his book when Harry stared back. As the parchment exchanged sides Rourke’s sharp expression remained until at last his hand caught and flipped back to the previous page, and his fingers ran down a list of locations, which he marked off with a self-filling peacock feather quill. “Run these cities to Edgecombe.” The book was thrust into Harry’s lap and Rourke waited expectantly for Harry to rise and leave.

“That’s all? Disapparation then?”

“ _By Lochrin_ , yes, Margaret Edgecombe will have the documents, _now go_.”

Harry nodded in respect to the director and stood. “Thank you, Emery.” He left the armchair behind. Maybe Rourke would exchange his rougher seat for the cushions.

 

* * *

  
Margaret Edgecombe looked up with a start as the door to her cramped office opened up and in walked the one man outside of the Minister for Magic who she knew at a glance. They had never seen one another in person before now, but she knew him all the same, and what he had done to her first career at the Ministry of Magic as well as her daughter’s education at Hogwarts. Her pale brown eyes could not even stare at his own cool green for more than a moment before Margaret retreated to the safety of the book in his hands, which he soon set atop her corner desk in the archival and filing domain of the department.

“Good morning.” His cordial greeting was met with a strangled murmur in return. There was nothing she could do or say against him, not anymore, not with Kingsley Shacklebolt as Minister for Magic instead of Cornelius Fudge or Rufus Scrimgeour. “Director Emery instructed me to give you these cities for disapparation approval. I and a friend of mine need to be across the continent early tomorrow morning.”

She examined the page he opened the book to and wondered. Bruges. Magdeburg. Vienna. Salgótarján. Satu Mare. And then Bucharest. For what purpose would Harry Potter require such a trip by the strenuous method of travel? Especially side-along. Her shame by the man half her age convinced her it would be to nothing good. Maybe he wanted to find a foreign whore who would not recognize his scar and spread her legs at once, unlike those at that despicable school that had failed her daughter.

Margaret kept her eyes down as she stood up and walked over to the filing cabinets across the room. She felt his eyes on the back of her neck and further down her moderately firm figure as she walked and felt a flush of deeper humiliation. _Why does he make everything worse_? Had she known he would come here Margaret would have worn another shirt, skirt, and flat slippers instead of her breathable outfit and comfortable heels. So few men ever approached her cramped office, preferring the Ministry’s usual aeroplanes for documents delivered and sent off.

She felt like she was burning up as she crouched and unlocked the cabinet. It was better to begin at the bottom and work her way up instead of dropping and rising. _The things he must be imagining_ … she thought to herself. Her fingers sorted through the traveling passes one after the other, and by the time that she had collected them all her face was flushed and her breathing coming in quick gasps.

When she returned to her desk and sat she found him waiting on a conjured stool. And his eyes _were_ tracking her movements when she dared look at them again. “Are you okay, Margaret?”

He had the audacity to ask that after the way his eyes had been stripping her these past minutes. _How dare he_ … She scribbled her name hastily to the bottom of the forms with a plain quill and slid them across to his waiting hand, drumming rhythmically at the edge. She only gave a single sharp nod in response to his question, lest he decide to take action ‘to help her breathe better’, as she had read about. Such a vile man.

He accepted the forms at a glance and stowed them into his robe. Then he rose and his wand was in hand, and though she had her own sitting on her desk less than a foot away she knew that she could never reach it in time, and flinched, expecting him to exact some further vengeance now that he had what he had needed. But instead his stool vanished back to whence it had come and he turned to go.

“Thank you.”

His remark hung in her thoughts for the remainder of her shift, and when she went home that night to a lonely bedroom - her husband having divorced her and her daughter left for Beauxbatons academy years ago - Margaret Edgecombe pictured Harry Potter taking her over her desk as she lay squirming in her downy bed. It was the best night of her life.

* * *

  
Harry returned to his and Ron’s office feeling rather uncomfortable. It was obvious that Marietta’s mother had been lonely for all too long, and her flighty glances and the flush in her cheeks had been… distracting, to say the least. He was grateful to be on his own floor of the Ministry again where he could think about his job and Charlie’s request.  
  
“So? How’d it go?” Ron had filled the time handling his paperwork in between snacks. A small landscape of crumbs offered a crunchy gravel underfoot for the paperweights at work.  
  
“All things considered, hardly as bad as I expected. Though if you ever have to retrieve any forms from Magical Transportation…” and he told Ron about the experience. By the time that Harry had reached the end, Ron had choked twice on his mulberry pie.  
  
“That bint fancied a ride on the _elder wand_ , eh?” Harry groaned and Ron chortled. “If you weren’t dating my sister I’d tell you to go back down there and take her up on the offer.”  
  
“Mate, I’m not touching that with a six foot broomstick.”  
  
Ron took a swig of milk and said afterward, “Well maybe she’ll get lucky with Rourke.”  
  
“Good luck to him. Now would you mind cleaning up so we can sign these and begin considering what we’ll need for the trip?” Harry noticed that his dragons had been pinned down. A sober Ron in charge of his chess set was a far greater danger than one still deep in his cups.  
  
“Like what?”  
  
Harry walked over to his own desk and dropped the passes down. “Like the fact that Charlie said we may need to contact his friends in Transportation. He may want us to bring over some equipment that wouldn’t otherwise pass inspection, and to be frank I’d appreciate it if you were the one to go make those rounds. I’ve had enough interaction with our other departments for one day.”  
  
Ron shrugged. “Just bring your Auror trunk. They can’t search those, can they?”  
  
“We aren’t ICW, mate. Diplomatic Immunity is a bit outside of our pay grade.”  
  
A few years ago Ron might have argued the point, but now he just downed the rest of his pie in a few quick chomps and swallowed the rest of his milk with it before dusting his robe off and standing up. “Good work you lot,” he said to the assortment of enchantments below. “Keep at it while I’m gone.” To Harry he added, “Keep a tally for me, would you?”  
  
Harry waved a hand idly. He was looking at the documentation and preparing an inkwell and pen.

 

  
End of Chapter One.


End file.
